Stroll through the vast fields
Where the sun's evanescent rays shine still,
Where the wind whispers a sweet melody
To the graceful willows,
To a place where wildflowers dance
Silently amongst the golden barley,
Further still, to where the humble oaks
Survey the land below with unrivaled wisdom,
Forge through the gentle sea,
until the crisp breeze of spring carries you away.

-E.M.

Part I

No words need be spoken
Inhaling loudly,
She is mindful and content.
The only artifice here
A camera in her gear;
This instant in a frame
As wonders engulf her,
She claims.

I stand at the centre,
Swamped by
The tick of high heels and chatter.
Mindful and composed,
Left aghast
By the mass who walk past.
The right words come up
Binding my feelings to my art.

Part II**

Smell the air
Both dig inspiration
Elsewhere;

Differences
Of worldly proportions
Our nature
Do not fit by definition.

Entering each other's realm,
We love to understand.

May this gap
Be bridged with time
For I am afraid

We do not rhyme.

I love the hills
Patted soft by time and feet
Of so many off for walks.

I love the cold
Strange, I know,
But when I'm shivering

I love the rain.
The second skin of
My land telling me I'm clean now.

I love the grass
The carpet of the thick ground
A sponge to all my anger.

I love the solitude
Because it's always just
You and me,

My world.

Today is the day. As in customary, we shall start with the weather: The morning is clear and cool, the sunshine weak but well-meaning, the wind sweet but sharp and the trees green and chatty.

This day has been a long time coming. This day has. For too long it has skulking amongst the future pages of some misplaced internal diary. It's long shadow has been edged with fear, dreaded like an exam. Said fear melts away like yesterday's clouds, replaced by sunny optimism, for this date is now set in stone, frozen hard over night it now stares me down with oblique neutrality.

I'm not going anywhere, it whispers softly. You're fears are misplaced. Your fear of me is a your fear of death. Useful up to a point - but essentially irrational. Whatever will be will be and it will today.

The morning gather pace and after momentary brief salutations and briefer negotiations the train is boarded. The destination: no one knows. We know the names but they seem oddly sterile now, the sound cold hard lumps in our mouths, currency worn smooth: Edale, the pennines, the peaks, Absorbic. Citric. Folic, Formic Carbonic. Sulphuric. Deoxyribonucleic, Lysergic. Acid.

The absurd signposts of anonymous hamlets lazily swing by with increasing rapidity, blurring into one like the blades of a helicopter.

Post-industrial scabs and sores instantly give way to merry bucolic splendor as itchy, thick balaclava of the city in torn away. Laugh about nothing as we are hurled headlong into some postcard image of an England long lost between 'then' and 'now' where trees sing, walls are dry-stone and happy cows and sheep await noble, happy deaths; all wrapped in honey-coloured sunshine.

Rolling mounds of soft green matter undulate gently to a halt, and we emerge intrepid coloniser of a galaxy far far away. Locals eye us warily, the hot sun looks down angrily now. The baking mud coughs dust in our eyes and yellow spears of dead grass stab our tender shins. The warm fuzzy nostalgia that we are draped in gives way to...something else. Illogical patterns snake across verdant valleys, breathing and twitching. Harsh blue sky melts into hazy horizon, like oil on water. Panic sets in.

Pleading looks are exchanged and whilst reassurance is sought, none is found. Each gaunt face is scoured for hints of strength. Leaderless we wade through a sea of shimmering heat, collecting beads of sweat, losing hope of succour. We seek solace in plastic pound-shop distractions, only to find we are rendered too numbskulled to operate children's toys. Terror turns to horror. The yawning maw of madness, death is now so close we are caressed by it's putrid breath...

Release! Baking savannah morphs to cool,  mottled-green grotto and everything has already changed. All is bathed in verdant peace and ears can feel the cool lapping of a friendly stream.

There's  a world outside my little square window
that overlooks fields and woodlands and sunsets
and that world overlooks a bustling avenue with
shutters on windows and constant, humming traffic.
There's a world outside my little square window
that keeps wakes me with the same sun every morning
and the same old singing birds,
and that world rouses me with a different kind of music;
of people and chatter and busking and life.
There's a world outside my little square window,
a world I would never have been tired of exploring,
and that world is named Paris.

Autumn night drive
we follow country lanes,
Singing Queen.
As, in the condensation
on the windows,
We write words
and draw shapes.

And through the lines
we have made
we glimpse
tree after, silhouetted tree
passing on by
when the sky,
Dark as it is,
Still displays
the very faintest hues
of orange at its base.

And behind the words
we have written
we see
mysterious lights
drifting through some distant field.
And I find myself
made strangely aware
of the way in which
the world has always continued
to breathe
and move and live,
Each night and day,
Far beyond the enclosure
of my eyelids.

Behind our seat belts,
We are still,
While the world moves around us,
We're coming from somewhere,
And we're on our way home,
What does that mean?

When we were in the city,
In the town,
In the streets,
There was a plastic bag
caught on the plank of a bench,
And a ball stuck in a tree.
There was a man wheeling his bike in the twilight,
There were walls and walls and doors and floor...
And walls with yellow white squares on them
That got smaller as they reached the sky,

I saw life in the squares,
A family ate dinner,
A man was on the phone,
A woman read a book,
And a man drank alone.

The faster we moved,
I watched their bodies blur,
They do it everyday,
What does that mean?

Eyes grace the celestial mechanics that
scatter our skies with glittering objects
alive with humming ancient materials.
Down here Man can't see deeply enough
into the skies so brimming with beauty
that he forgets to marvel at the above.
Although the ground is rich with earth
so delightful and thriving with life so pure,
so simple it is to focus solely on the crust.
What objects and footprints grace our ground
and with what items they hold in their hands
is not so important when looking from clouds.
Precious and selfish, pathetic and cruel can't
do justice for the description of Man
and tracing the stars should help one think.
Think with the mind and not with the eyes,
there is far too much that hasn't been seen
yet by curious, clever, keen minds.